


the nurturing styles of peggy carter

by allthingsgo



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 02:59:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11614485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthingsgo/pseuds/allthingsgo
Summary: Angie's sick. Peggy is a good gf.





	the nurturing styles of peggy carter

  
Days before Christmas, Angie develops a cold.  


She's lying on the couch in the living room, limbs sticking out from under multiple blankets and a cup of tea sitting precariously on her stomach. Her nose is so red that Peggy has taken to calling her Rudolph in a sing-song voice that Angie insists is 'not funny at all'. Though she says it more like 'th-that's not', sniff, 'funny at all'. 

"Peggy, I'm gonna-" A big sneeze shakes her body only a second after Peggy swoops in from the kitchen to lift the tea cup to safety, a bowl of chicken noodle soup in her other hand. "Oh, that was a fierce one." Peggy looks at her warmly, setting the china on the coffee table. Three candles flicker lightly on the mantle. "You should really stop kicking these off, Angie, it's snowing outside!" She fixes the blankets and tucks them tight, paying no mind to the pouting person constituting the filling. 

"There," Peggy smiles, "my very own cannoli." 

"You're not a very experienced nurturer, are you?" deadpans Angie, though Peggy can tell she's trying to snuff out a smile.

"No," Peggy says, as she turns back to grab the bowl of soup. "But I am an excellent chef."

The triumphant air she's developed fades quickly once she realizes she's incapacitated Angie beyond the point of being able to eat her own soup. The girl in question only gives her a look.

"Should I...?" Ventures Peggy, gingerly bringing a spoonful of broth forward.

"Please free me."

And free her she does.

Comfortably sitting up, Angie talks very little and eats devotedly. Peggy elects to sit on the floor next to her, looking up as she sips on her own tea. She's only seen Angie sick thrice, and her behavior is very consistent: she'll pout, talk the normal amount but increase her whimpering every moment Peggy is not explicitly catering to her. Then, once she's being pampered, her level of activity dramatically falls as if to soak in the care and attention without distraction.

Peggy sips delicately at her peppermint-infused masterpiece. Angie slurps up a noodle. Luckily, Peggy thinks, Angie manages to be utterly endearing no matter what she's doing. 

"Do you feel well enough to finish decorating tonight?" Peggy asks, the incomplete christmas tree very apparent in her periphery. 

"I could probably decorate the neighbors' houses after this," says Angie, tilting back the last of her meal. Peggy laughs, getting up swiftly to take her bowl back to the kitchen. When she returns, Angie's moved over with her blankets on her lap, softly patting the space next to her. 

"Come lay with me."

That phrase has been uttered many times now, with different implications throughout their long relationship. Each time, it elicits the same smile, the same flutter, and the same pull. They've only ever grown stronger.

The couch isn't very wide, but closeness has never been a problem for them. They already know by now how they fit together.

Angie tilts her head up, perennially bright blue eyes meeting brown. Peggy always looks to Angie's eyes first whenever she tells her she's feeling ill; if they lose their shine then she knows she's got something to worry about.

And so, Angie continues to look on expectantly. Red, puffy, and beautiful. Peggy can only smile. She leans forward and places a kiss on Angie's nose, receving a querulous whimper in return.

"Excuse me?" Peggy laughs, pulling her head back. Angie inches forward now, pouting.

"I feel better now, come on..."

Peggy continues to giggle, trying to scramble away (jokingly, of course). Angie is having none of it and tangles their legs together under the blankets, her arms clinging on tighter around Peggy's waist as well.

"Angie, I'm not kissing you! I can't get sick as well!"

"But then when we could keep on kissing and not worry anymore!"

"Angie!"

"Fine!" Angie now shoves her face into the crook of Peggy's neck, hanging on while Peggy nearly rocks the couch with laughter.

"Oh, you poor, needy angel," coos Peggy, smattering delicate kisses everywhere except on Angie's lips. The reply is muffled and indiscernible, but it sounds grumpy.

"Just focus on getting better, love, and we can do whatever you want." Peggy takes to smoothing down light brown locks, her gaze fixed on the falling snow outside the window.

"I'm sorry if I get snot on you," Angie mumbles. She sniffles for emphasis.

"That's fine I'll just shower it off." Peggy glances back down at her, sincere.

"Could I help?"

Peggy is intent on giving her a very firm stare and officially ending this conversation, but one look at Angie's face and that pleading-innocence, it-just-slipped-out expression and they're both erupting into another fit of giggles, enveloping themselves further into each other's arms like they've gotten so used to.

And it's there, on a tiny couch, with the snow falling and the low light of the room shrouding them as Angie breathes softly against her chest that she knows she will probably never get tired of it.

**Author's Note:**

> I WAS HIT WITH CARTINELLI THIS EVENING IN A STRONG MANNER. Whipped this out consequently, so it's short and pure fluff and for some fucking reason takes place around christmas time so I guess that shows you where my interests lie, season-wise. Anyway, Cartinelli is the most perfect ship to never sail and I'll be forever bitter.


End file.
